


Aftermath

by littlefaerielights



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Anorexia, Bipolar Disorder, Gen, M/M, Real Life, Relapse, Richie just needs help and love, Self-Harm, obvious trigger warning, the Losers are there for him, treatment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-19 04:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16527149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefaerielights/pseuds/littlefaerielights
Summary: But Richie was tired. He was tired of treatment. He was tired of therapy. He was tired of new meds. He was tired of the lectures. He was tired of the meal plans on the refrigerator. He was tired of the way his mother weighed him every other morning. He was tired of the sad looks his friends gave him while he struggled to eat with them. He was tired of his hair falling out, of his brittle nails, of his sore teeth, of his aching bones, of his shitty memory, of being cold, of the hair all over his body, of the fact that he couldn’t climb up to Eddie’s window anymore.





	1. What it's Like

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this story is going to be all about my adventures in treatment and how i got there to begin with and what happened afterwards. I'm still struggling and i figured writing it out would help. I hope you like it!

It started out small, really.

 

It was just supposed to be a few pounds here, a few pounds there… but then it all spiraled out of control. It turned him into the kind of person he hated. He lied, manipulated, and hid so much of his life now. But he put up such a good show, he was surprised no one noticed. But that’s who he was, Richie Tozier, the greatest showman. He was… not _happy_ no one noticed, but relieved, was a better fit, he supposed. He didn’t know what would happen if the Losers found out, or his parents. He didn’t want to get shipped off to treatment. _Again._ Richie just felt so _bad_ because he knew his parents spent so much money sending him away to get better and every time he came home, it was almost a countdown until his next relapse. And he felt like his days were numbered, like they were just waiting for the smallest break in his façade to make the call.

 

But Richie was _tired._ He was tired of treatment. He was tired of therapy. He was tired of new meds. He was tired of the lectures. He was tired of the meal plans on the refrigerator. He was tired of the way his mother weighed him every other morning. He was tired of the sad looks his friends gave him while he struggled to eat with them. He was tired of his hair falling out, of his brittle nails, of his sore teeth, of his aching bones, of his shitty memory, of being cold, of the hair all over his body, of the fact that he couldn’t climb up to Eddie’s window anymore. He was tired of letting his friends and family down. He knew that eventually this was going to be the thing that would kill him and he didn’t understand why they just won’t let him die.

 

“Three meals, three snacks.” He mutters, glancing at the newest meal plan on the refrigerator door. He rolls his eyes as he pulls it open and grabs a cold bottle of water. “Who the fuck eats that much?” he asks himself, slamming the door shut. He opens the water bottle, ignoring the hunger pains in his stomach. There’s a quiet knock on the door and Richie knows it can either be Eddie or Bev. He hopes it’s the latter for once. He doesn’t want to take his anger out on Eddie. Richie slowly makes his way to the door and once he opens the door, Bev beams up at him. He can’t help but return her smile because it’s just so beautiful.

 

“Hey, Bevvie, what’re you doing here?” he asks and hopes that doesn’t sound too rude. She ducks under his arm and he closes the door. Richie shrugs. He grabs a blanket from the couch and wraps himself in it before following Bev to the kitchen. “What’re you doing in the kitchen?”

 

“When was the last time you ate, babe?” she calls, and her voice is worried and loving and Richie almost feels bad for lying to her.

 

“Breakfast. But I woke up late, so it was a late breakfast. So like, elevenish.” He says with a straight face. She raises an eyebrow.

 

“What’d you eat?” It’s a test. A test he can pass with his eyes closed and his arms tied behind his back.

 

“Oatmeal, toast with butter, and bananas with peanut butter.” The lie rolls off of his tongue so easily, he almost believes it himself.

 

Bev purses her lips, but decides to believe him and glances at the clock on the stove. “Okay, love, it’s almost one. Time for a snack.” She says because they all have his meal plan memorized. Richie sighs because he knows she won’t leave until he eats _and_ it’s fully digested so he can’t throw it up.

 

“But I had a big breakfast.” Richie protests. Bev clicks her tongue.

 

“ _No_ , you had a breakfast that fit your meal plan.” She says. “Now it’s time for snack.”

 

“I’m not a fucking child.” He snaps because she sounds like a kindergarten teacher talking to her students and he felt all the relief he had for her coming over fade away. But if it was Eddie, he’d be checking his med boxes along with forcing him to eat.

 

“No, but you can’t be trusted to eat by yourself anymore, can you?” Bev countered, voice calm. Richie found that this angered him more and he opened his mouth to argue more but Bev stopped him by raising a hand. “Stan’s coming over later. He misses you, and _no,_ he’s not coming over to play babysitter.” She rolls her eyes as she measured a cup of granola and allowed Richie to double check it before pouring it into a bowl. “Even though he’s coming over to catch up after his vacation, he _will_ make sure you eat dinner, so don’t fucking fight him on it, okay?” she added, pouring out one third cup of Greek yogurt. Richie checks it and she pours it over the granola before pushing it towards him with a spoon. He glares at her and she glares right back before he carefully stirs it all together. It looks disgusting and all Richie can think of was the fat and calories and carbs that was entering his body. He can feel every bite, heavy on his tongue. He fights to swallow it, and he feels every bite going down, down, _down._ He washes it down with a gulp of water and Bev narrows her eyes slightly.

 

“When’d Stanny get back?” he asks, pushing the granola back and forth in his bowl. He feels Bev’s eyes on him.

 

“Late last night. Mike texted me.” She replies easily, but Richie can detect a slight edge to her voice. He takes a bite and it takes everything in him to swallow. He smiles at her and she runs a hand soothingly through his hair.

 

“Thank you.” he mutters.

 

“You got this, babe.” Bev’s voice is calm and loving and it’s everything he needs to take another bite. She sits on the counter next him. “Wanna play a game?”

 

“Oh god, no more table games.” Richie groans. Bev laughs and holds his free hand.

 

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” Her voice is soft. “For every bite, I want you to tell me your favorite band or song and why.” She squeezes his hand. “Sound good?”

 

Richie stares into his disgusting granola concoction, thinking. It _would_ be a good way to keep his mind off of eating. After five long minutes, he finally nods. Bev smiles brightly at him and gestures at him for him to get a bite ready. “Okay, favorite band. Go!”

 

He stares at his spoon. “Um, Nirvana.” He says slowly, raising the spoon to his mouth. It pauses at his lips. Bev raises an eyebrow. “I can relate to the lyrics. I feel the pain Kurt feels.” He explains before pushing the spoon in his mouth. The granola weighs on his tongue and he chews it slowly before swallowing it and it feels like rocks falling down his throat and landing in his stomach. Bev frowns at the look on his face.

 

“Come on, sweetheart, you can do this.” Her voice is sweet like cotton candy and warm like tea. It wraps around him and gives him the energy to take another bite. She smiles and runs her hand through his hair again. “Kay, let’s go with favorite song now.”

 

Richie stares at his bowl. “You know how I’ve been really into The 1975 lately?” his voice is a little raw and he hates it. Bev nods with that sweet smile of hers. “Well I’ve been obsessed with _Love it if We Made It._ ”

 

“Well, that is a fucking awesome song, so.” She lightly nudged at his arm. “Bite, babe.” She says softly. He takes a gulp of water and takes a small bite. Bev clicks her tongue. “Doesn’t count.”

 

“Goddammit, Bev, I’m doing the best I can!” Richie snaps and it takes everything in him to not throw the bowl across the room. Bev looks at him with kind eyes and it makes him want to cry. He falls to the floor and rests his head in his hands. He feels Bev sit down in front of him, close enough to touch, but not quite.

 

“I know you are.” She says softly. “And you’re doing wonderfully. But you need to finish, okay? You only have a few bites left. Then we can go smoke.” She gently pats his hand. “Sound good?”

 

No, it didn’t sound good. Richie didn’t want to finish the granola. It was heavy, it weighed on his tongue and he could _feel_ it. He continues pulling at his hair and avoids looking at Bev. He hears her sigh.

 

“How does a banana and peanut butter sound?” she asks. Bananas aren’t heavy, but peanut butter is _sticky._ It sticks to everything all the way down, coats his stomach lining and _stays_ there.

 

“Okay.” He whispers. “Half, right?”

 

Bev stands up and looks at his granola. “A little less than half. And a tablespoon of peanut butter.” She takes the granola and takes a bite while she cuts up a banana and measures the peanut butter. She sets it in front of his chair and Richie sighs. He can’t avoid it, he knows he can’t, so he sighs and stands up and takes his spot. He dips his fork in the peanut butter and stabs a slice of banana. He closes his eyes and sighs as he takes the bite. The peanut butter sticks to his lips and coats his tongue and he wants to cry. He takes a drink of water and repeats the process until the plate is empty. Tears are rolling down his cheeks and Bev is watching him with sad eyes. Richie is used to that look and he hates it. He avoids making eye contact and grabs his pack off of the counter and walks outside. He hears Bev rush to follow. He lights his cigarette and paces around the patio, puffing it down.

 

“Sit down.” Bev says. Richie pretends he doesn’t hear her. He needs to work these calories off. He needs to make the peanut butter unstick itself from his insides and the granola stop weighing like rocks in his stomach. He takes a long gulp of water. “Richie.” Her voice is stern now, but he continues to ignore her and paces off into the grass. He wants to run. He _needs_ to run. Bev must sense his need to _move,_ and rushes over. She gently cups his face and forces him to look at her. He does finds comfort in her blue eyes. She pushes the hair out of his face. “Five things you can see?”

 

“You.” Richie starts out, relaxing into her touch. He allows his eyes to roam. “The sky, birds, clouds, your hair.”

 

Bev nods. “Four things you can touch?”

 

“Your hands.” He says, covering one of her hands with his own. She smiles at this and silently urges him to continue. “Your breathing, the air, Padfoot chewing on his bone.”

 

Bev gives a little laugh and pulls him to the ground. They sit with crossed legs across from each other, their fingers linked and the need to run is slowly leaving Richie’s mind. Bev runs her thumb over his hand soothingly and doesn’t break eye contact. “Three things you can feel?”

 

“The grass, your fingers, my cardigan slipping off of my shoulder.” Richie says. He can still feel the peanut butter coating his organs, the granola like a boulder in his stomach. He takes a deep breath.

 

“You’re okay, baby.” Bev says calmly and Richie wants to believe her. He feels tears fill his eyes and waits for her to continue their grounding routine. “Two things you can smell?” she asks, her voice soft.

 

“The air.” Richie says and he hopes Bev understands what he means. It’s that sweet evening summer air and he wishes he could bottle it up and live in it. She nods and squeezes his hand, urging him to continue. “Your perfume.” Her perfume that always smells like home.

 

“Good job, sweetheart.” She says. “One thing you can taste?”

 

“My cigarette.” Richie finishes. He doesn’t feel flighty anymore, but he’s still very aware of the food he just ate.

 

“How’re you doing, babe?” Bev asks. Richie shrugs because he doesn’t want to lie to Bev again, but he also doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words right now. Bev nods in understanding because she’s good like that. “Feel any better, though?” He nods slowly, because he does. They lay back in the soft grass and watch the sun set in silence because that’s what Richie needs right now. Bev holds his hand tightly, a sweet reminder that she’s there because sometimes Richie forgets.

 

“Thank you, Bevvie.” The words are almost inaudible, but Bev hears and she kisses his shoulder.

 

“I love you, Richie.” She responds and he kisses her forehead.

 

“I love you.” he says, his lips never leaving her skin.


	2. Chew and Spit

When Bev leaves, Richie locks himself in his room. He moves his rug to the side and lifts up the loose floorboard. From there, he picks up a torn up box with bloody fingerprints and a ratty black rag. He leans against his bed carefully opens the box.

 

Richie feels nothing right now. He’s numb and the only thought on his mind is that he must punish himself for eating. If anything, he’s absolutely disgusted with himself and it’s too late to rid himself of the fucking heavy granola Bev all but shoved down his throat. It’s too late to rid himself of the sticky, sticky peanut butter.

 

He looks at the open box on his lap. It’s full of shiny, blood stained things and they make his wasted heart race just a little. He pulls off his shirt and picks up his favorite blade. He starts carving at his obtuse stomach, at his ribs. It’s a silent process.

 

When he’s done and sticky with blood, he picks up the ratty rag. He pours water over it from his water bottle and carefully begins to wash away the blood. He hates seeing his body, but the deep cuts he marks himself with reminds him that he’s alive. Richie bandages himself up before changing into a warmer shirt. He hides the bloodstained box and rag under the floorboard again and pulls the rug back over it. He smiles to himself as he pushes open his window and lights a cigarette.

 

\----

When Richie finally makes it back downstairs, someone is knocking at the door. He frowns and zips his sweater up. When he answers the door, Eddie is standing on the other side with a book and a bag of food. Richie wrinkles his nose and steps back to let his boyfriend in.

 

“I thought it was Stan that was supposed to force feed me dinner?” his joke doesn’t make Eddie laugh. Instead, he scowls and walks past him to the dining room. Richie sighs and follows him.

 

“Bevvie told me how snack went.” Eddie starts, unpacking their dinner. “But I know what you like.” He gestures for Richie to sit, which he does, but avoids looking at the food Eddie’s unpacking. Eddie sighs a little at that, but hands Richie the book to look at. It’s _1984._

“We can do this one of two ways, baby.” Eddie says, gently taking Richie’s chin in his hand and tilting it up so he had to look at the food. Richie raises an eyebrow. “We can eat together, or you can eat while I read to you to keep your mind off of it.”

 

Eddie had made a grilled chicken salad. It has black beans and corn in it and Richie can’t tell what kind of dressing this is. He grimaces at Eddie, who smiles encouragingly back. “Let’s eat together.” He decides for Richie, because he can clearly see the panic building in his head. “I can read at the same time. How does that sound?”

 

It’s whatever, Richie decides. Because he doesn’t want to eat this salad anymore than he wanted to eat that fucking granola this afternoon. Fuck fulfilling a goddamn meal plan. Why can’t he continue to survive off of water and half an apple every few days? It’s not like it really _does_ anything to him. He’s still _really fucking fat_ and no matter how long he’s had this fucking disease, that won’t change. He sighs quietly and picks up his fork like he’s actually going to eat. He places his napkin in his lap because they all know how messy he is when he eats, right?

 

Eddie’s already taken a bite and has started to read aloud. Richie takes a small bite, chews a little before carefully spitting it back into his napkin. Eddie glances over and he quickly takes another bite, this time swallowing it. It goes down his esophagus like sandpaper and he fights not to cough.

 

_“The Ministry of Truth, it was said, contained three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.”_

Richie loves listening to Eddie read. His voice caresses every word lovingly and wraps him in a warm blanket. He cut a piece of chicken in half, then into quarters, then into eights. He stabs one of the pieces, before adding a bean, and topping it off with a large piece of spinach. He shoves it in his mouth and glances at Eddie, and sees that the book cover is covering his face. He chews it once, twice, then brings his napkin to his mouth and spits it out.

 

_“Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed himself lunch at the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen…”_

\---

 

“How much of it did you _actually_ eat?” Eddie was trying to keep his voice calm, Richie could tell. And he was doing a pretty damn good job of it, considering the contents of two nearly full napkins were now emptied on his dinner plate. Richie shrugs and avoids making eye contact. He really can’t think of how much he _really_ ate. He also can’t figure out how Eddie found out and he also doesn’t want this to turn into a fight.

 

“Did you dig around in the fucking trash for that?” Richie snaps and suddenly it’s a fight because he can almost _see_ the band snap.

 

“When you keep pulling shit like this, Rich, how can you expect me not to?”

 

“I can expect you to trust me for fucking once!” Richie shoots back and Eddie doesn’t say anything. Richie looks at him. He’s standing across from him, his hands splayed out on the table and his cheeks are red with anger. His eyes are pleading, though. Hurt and worried. He sighs and stands up straight.

 

“I try, baby.” And Richie feels reassured, because he knows it can’t be _that bad_ if Eddie is still calling him baby. “I try _so hard,_ but you keep hiding shit from us, from _me._ ” His voice is sad and Richie’s heart breaks. “I thought this time was different. We talked about this in therapy. So many times! _We_ talked about it, you talked about it with all of us. Why are you hiding again? What’s going on?”

 

The honest answer was because all he ever knew was his eating disorder. The honest answer was if he looked deep into himself, if he had to choose between his anorexia and Eddie, he would choose his anorexia. If he had to choose between the Losers and his anorexia, he would choose his anorexia. He _hated_ himself for it, but he knew it was true. She was the one who was there late in the night when no one else was, praising him and guiding him. She was the one who was in always in his head, his oldest friend.

 

“Rich?” Eddie’s voice was softer now, kinder. Richie jumps. He had been too quiet for too long.

 

“Nothing.” He says, picking up his dinner plate. He stares at the half chewed food and grimaces. Sometimes he wonders why people think anorexia is glamorous when he does shit like this. He throws the whole plate in the trash and walks away.

 

\----

 

Richie hears Eddie on the phone when he comes back inside. He can’t tell who to, though, so he hides behind the wall and listens carefully.

 

“No, I don’t think we need to do that yet—well, no…” Eddie was quiet, but Richie could hear him pacing around the room. “I mean dinner didn’t go _perfectly,_ but it was still fine.” He paused. “Okay, yes, but, Stan, I don’t—no, you don’t need to come over!” he was pacing again. “Please don’t.” he was pleading now. “Okay, fine. See what happens.” He sighed heavily and listened for a while. “Okay. See you soon. Yeah. _Yes, Stan, I know._ Love you, too.” There was the sound of Eddie throwing his phone on the couch.

 

Richie throws his head back and silently groans.

 

 


	3. Bite for Bite

Richie slowly walks up to his room and quietly closes the door behind him. He sits on the floor and leans against his bed, hearing the questions asked in hushed voices in his head: _What should we do next? What should we do with him now? What’s wrong this time? Is it his meds? Why isn’t he talking? What are we doing wrong? Do we take him to the last place or go out of state? What do we do? What do we do? What do we do?_

He hates it. He hates that they all talk behind his back. He hates that they all worry. He hates that they care so goddamn much. He hates that his relationship with Eddie has turned more into a chore than a relationship. He hates that his friends pity him more than they love him. He hates that his parents police his life so much now.

 

But most of all, he hates that it’s all his fault. He hates that he can’t stop. He hates that he wouldn’t stop even if he could.

 

\----

 

Stan doesn’t knock when he comes into Richie’s room. He doesn’t expect him to. He never has. He doesn’t greet him, or look up. He listens to Stan’s quiet footsteps cross the room until he’s sitting next to him. Close enough to touch, but Stan is still giving him his space. Richie caves and reaches out his hand for Stan to hold. He can feel his best friend relax.

 

“So I sat next to the most _interesting_ person on the plane.” Stan starts, voice casual. He squeezes Richie’s hand, a silent question if it’s okay to continue. Richie squeezes back in response and Stan continues his story. “She had pink and purple hair, split right down the middle. It made me think of you—remember, that one time when you tried to do the whole Melanie Martinez thing? Anyway, she was also wearing a black dress with the constellations on it and she had some _beautiful_ tattoos! Flowers and trees and she had a Harry Potter one, too. They were all black and white so her daughter could color them in. So basically, she was a walking coloring book. She told me the story of how her and her wife met—which is fucking crazy. It was at a protest, where they both got arrested and they ended up spending the night in the same holding cell and well, the rest is history?” Stan pauses to look at Richie’s face and he feels uncomfortable because Stan can read him better than anyone. He kisses his forehead lightly and continues. “Anyway, I’m never going to North Carolina for business again because I swear to fucking god, those people can sniff out a gay when they see one. It’s like I had a rainbow flag tattooed on my forehead and a trail of fucking glitter was following me the whole time. Never. Again.”

 

“Did you sound so fucking _gay_ the whole time? Because if you did, then—“

 

“Excuse me, that did not sound _gay,_ Richie.” Stan shoots back, barely repressing a smile.

 

“Do you ever hear yourself talk?”

 

Stan rolls his eyes, ignoring Richie’s comment. He smiles, though, and Richie thinks maybe everything is okay. “I came home this morning and the house was full of sunflowers.” Stan says finally and his eyes light up.

 

“Like, so full you couldn’t walk or…?”

 

“Don’t be a dumbass. You know what I mean.” Stan laughs and Richie smiles. He rests his head on Stan’s shoulder and he listened to his best friend babble on about flowers and vegetables and new things on the farm he now lived on with Mike.

 

Richie feels calm and warm and safe. He focuses on the way Stan’s hand feels in his, how his voice vibrates underneath his ear. He thinks about Eddie downstairs and how sorry he was for ruining dinner. He thinks about Bev and how he yelled at her and how much he hates himself for hurting her like that. He thinks about Stan and how lucky he is to have a best friend that knows and loves him enough to know exactly what he needs.

 

\----

 

Eddie is the best kind of boyfriend, honestly, and Richie hates himself because he knows how horrible he is to Eddie.

 

Richie loves Eddie more than life itself, really, he does, and he would do _anything_ for him.

 

Anything, except give up his eating disorder.

 

They’ve done their family therapy before while he was in treatment and half of the words that came out of Richie’s mouth were lies and empty promises. He knows that Eddie knows and he knows that it’s only a matter of time. He also knows that Eddie’s trying his fucking hardest, and for that Richie will always be thankful.

 

He just hates that he’s hurting Eddie so badly. He hates that Eddie’s clinging on, but Richie’s not strong enough to let him go.

 

\----

 

Richie hears Stan and Eddie talking quietly while they think he’s napping on the couch. They were watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine when he started to doze in Eddie’s lap. Now the volume’s low on the t.v. and they’re talking about him.

 

“How do you think he’s doing?” Stan’s voice is sad this time, worried and caring. Eddie doesn’t speak for a while, just runs his fingers through his hair.

 

“I dunno, honestly.” And he sounds so defeated it breaks Richie’s heart. “He hides so much from me now, I can’t even tell anymore.” He sighs heavily. “I think that maybe today was just a bad day. We had a good lunch yesterday together. Maggie said he’s been pretty consistent with breakfast. He eats with her almost everyday.”

 

There’s more silence. “Yeah, maybe today was just a bad day.” Stan agrees softly.

 

\----

 

Richie doesn’t remember when they ended up back in his room last night, or why, but they’re all piled up in his bed like they used to when they were younger. There was a stream of pale early morning light streaming through the crack of his black window curtains. He blinks a few times to set his contacts back in place. He starts stroking his fingers through Eddie’s hair, who smiles and buries his face in Richie’s chest. He looks around for a minute before he finds Stan at his hip, warms thrown across his legs in a tight embrace. Richie decides to lay there in silence, wrapped in the love of his best friends until they wake up. He briefly wonders what Bill is doing and how perfectly complete this morning dogpile would be with him. He looks down and studies Stan’s face. He looks calm and relaxed for the first time in a while and Richie hates himself for being the reason for all of his worry. He runs his fingers through his curls before resting his hand on Stan’s cheek. He stirs a little and tightens his grip around his legs.

 

Richie thinks he’s never felt so loved before. He can feel in his bones that today will be easier.

 

\----

 

  
When Richie wakes up again, Eddie and Stan were gone, leaving Bev in their place. She was awake, sitting at the end of his bed. She has all of his pillows surrounding her, reading. When he sits up, blinking his contacts into place again, Bev smiles brightly at him and passes him his contact case and glasses. He returns the smile and took his contacts out and puts his glasses on and Bev fully comes into focus. He notices she was reading _Harry Potter_ again for the billionth time and laughs under his breath. She looks up, raising an eyebrow, daring him to say something. He just leans forward and kisses her forehead.

 

“I’m sorry about yesterday.” Richie says quietly, leaning against his headboard. Bev throws him a pillow, a kind smile on her lips.

 

“It’s okay.” is all she says, but Richie can tell she wants to say more.

 

“Don’t say it’s okay if it’s not, Bevvie.”

 

“I mean, it’s not okay, but I know you’re trying,” she says honestly. “and I can’t get mad at you for that. I just wish you would let us in and stop fighting us so hard because we’re on your side, Richie. All we want is for you to get better. We want you to be healthy and at a place where the monster in your head isn’t constantly yelling at you and for you to remember that food _isn’t_ the enemy. I know you can beat this, baby, I just need you to see it for yourself.”

 

Richie sighs and allows her to wrap her arms around him. He pulls her in closer and buries his face in her hair, allowing her scent to overwhelm him. She smells like home, comfort, _love._ He feels horrible for finding comfort in her while she begged for him to get better and all he could think of was how ridiculous it was for them to continue trying so hard. Couldn’t they see that they were wasting his time, that he was a last cause?

 

“Yeah… for myself.” He murmurs into Bev’s hair.

 

She pretends not to hear him.

 

\-----

 

When they decide to leave the safety bubble of his room, it smells like honey vanilla chamomile tea. There’s quiet laughter and voices coming from the kitchen. Richie follows Bev and he’s pleased to see that Eddie and Stan were still here, but they had also invited Ben, Bill, and Mike over. Bev takes her spot next to Ben and Eddie walks over to him with his favorite mug full of steaming tea.

 

“Hi, baby,” he says, standing on his toes to kiss his cheek. Richie wraps his free arm around him and holds him tightly against him, trying to put all the words he can’t say into the embrace. When he feels Eddie’s lips press against his chest, he knows it works. Once he lets go, Eddie goes back to his spot on the counter and Richie stands between his legs.

 

“We were just talking about driving up to Portland today. You know, get out of Derry for a while?” Ben says. Richie takes a sip of his tea and leans back in Eddie’s embrace. He thinks about these plans for a moment and Eddie gently scratches his back.

 

“Sounds fun, who’s driving?” he finally decides. Ben smiles brightly at him. Stan sets a bowl of cereal and half a banana with peanut butter on the table.

 

“Breakfast, Rich.” He says, nodding at the food. Richie sighs heavily and he pushes himself away from the counter and sits down. Mike smiles encouragingly at him from across the table and Richie takes his first bite.

 

Cereal isn’t too bad. Right? Today’s supposed to be a good day. His friends continued to talk about what they’d do in Portland today. One bite at a time. Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the Boost you’ll have to drink if you don’t finish. Fill the spoon with cereal. Chew. Repeat. He looks down and suddenly the cereal was gone. He looks around and suddenly the cereal was gone. He looks around, hoping no one was paying attention to him. But Bill was and he raises an eyebrow and nods, looking at the milk in the bowl. Richie sighs heavily and picks up his bowl. He closes his eyes and thinks of how warm and comfortable he felt last night as he drinks the too sweet milk. He resisted the urge the urge to gag on it. When he was done, he sets the bowl down and pushes it far away from him and takes a long drink of tea, washing the taste of milk down. He pulls the bananas in front of him and glares at the peanut butter. He pushes the peanut butter away and stabs a banana with his fork.

 

“Hey, Rich, would you eat the peanut butter if I ate some with you?” Mike asks. Richie looks up and nods. Mike gets up and takes a cup of peanut butter from the cabinet and a little bag of pre-cut apples from the refrigerator. He sits down again and takes Ben’s fork and knife from his pancakes and cuts his apple slices into squares. He dips his fork into peanut butter before stabbing an apple and smiles at Richie. “Ready?”

 

Richie follows his lead with his bananas and nods. They take the bite at the same time. They continue until Richie’s banana is finished.

 

He can feel the sticky peanut butter, but today is better.

 


End file.
